


Weapons Practice

by wargoddess



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Barebacking, Demon Sex, M/M, Other, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-13
Updated: 2003-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a typical night in the Devil May Cry bar, Dante discovers something atypical about his Devil Arms.  Set after the first game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weapons Practice

     The girl was playing with fire, though she didn't know it.  Dante had learned to conceal his true nature behind a mask of indifference ages ago.  Humans got nervous around him otherwise, because gleeful bloodlust and mindless rage weren't the sort of emotions they considered healthy.  Violent uncontrollable sexual hunger didn't go over too well either.  The problem with a mask of indifference, though, was that facial expressions had their uses; they were handy smoke-signals for _Come hither_ or _go away._   If the girl could have seen his true face, she would have read the message there loud and clear.  _Keep cockteasing me,_ his face would have said.  _In a few minutes I'm going to fuck somebody, right here and right now.  You look handy.  I might do it in demon-form; yeah that'd be fun.  And I won't particularly care whether you're willing or not._

     But instead she saw only boredom, which apparently made her think she needed to try harder.  Dante endured her gyrations, not moving while she danced in front of him, against him, letting her body brush his in half a dozen ways that she probably intended as harmless flirtation but which his body interpreted as Fuck Me Now.  He didn't push her away because on some level, he didn't want to.  Instead he watched her and pretended boredom while imagining all the positions he wanted to put her in.  He also didn't push her away because it was a matter of pride that he could endure her dance without losing control.  A demon would have had her on the floor already.  Self-control was one of the things that made him stronger than them.

     But damn, she wasn't making it easy.

     And when she put her hand on his crotch and found the undeniable stone of his erection, he nearly lost control anyway.  He caught her hand and for a second he was going to do it -- pick her up, shove her up against the wall, tear away whatever she had on under that skirt and fuck her unconscious in full view of the whole bar.  Devil Never Cry was packed, full of bikers and biker wannabes dancing their asses off to the industrial music pounding from the speakers, but he didn't think the place was so frenetic that the patrons wouldn't notice him ripping off her clothing and laughing at her screams.  In that eternal second he didn't care.  Let them watch and take notes.  But in that second he saw her face change, and realized _his_ face had changed.  His control had slipped, and now she could see the real him, and it quite rightly scared the hell out of her.

     Her hand slipped off his crotch.  In the same moment, he forced his own hand -- which had been tightening on hers, about to jerk her closer -- to release her and move back to his side.  And he forced himself to smile, knowing it would not quite conceal the _take her do it yeah who cares what she wants_ gleam of his eyes, but hoping it would keep her from going into a panic.

     "Sorry, babe," he murmured softly.  Even over the music, she heard him.  "I don't think you could handle me tonight."

     She nodded mutely and beat a hasty retreat, muttering something about the bathroom before backing away into the crowd.  He watched her go and didn't move from his spot against the wall even though his muscles clenched to begin the pursuit.

     _Shit --  stupid --_   His heart was pounding in time with the music, his cock throbbing on the downbeats in between.  He'd waited too long, gotten too close to the brink.  The hunger was loose and ravening within him, and it wasn't going away.  He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the music, trying not to think _oh God I'm so hard I need to come it almost hurts I need a fuck SO BAD_ but he couldn't help it.  It came on him like this sometimes.  Always before he'd had a ready outlet nearby -- enemies to fight and kill, a demon woman with a libido to match his own.  Or Vergil... but Vergil was gone.  So was Trish, off investigating some minor demon infestation at a monastery in Spain.  There was no one around to fight -- or fuck -- except humans, and he knew better than to try that.

     _Get out of here._   Yes.  He concentrated on straightening and stepping away from the wall, then putting one foot in front of the other.  He'd have to leave the bar without a bouncer, but so be it.  The bartender had a 12-gauge if things got ugly.  If he could get to his room, maybe he could take the edge off with his hand.  Get himself under control so that he could then find that girl again and not _tear her beat her bite her make her scream_...

     He staggered through the "Employees Only" door that led to the dim stairwell and stopped, clutching the bannister and sinking his nails into the wood, panting raggedly.  He was going to lose it.  His body didn't want to masturbate.  It wanted to _hunt fight fuck maim kill_ , with a little _blow up shit_ as dessert.  He was going to kill everybody in the bar and take the prettiest for his prize, because that was what a demon would do and right now the demon was surging in his blood, screaming in his brain, writhing in his soul and demanding to be unleashed, unleashed, **_unleashed_** \--

     [Master.]

     He stopped panting and raised his head, every sense alert and focusing on that soft, cultured mental voice.

     [Master.]  A different voice, rougher and deeper.  Familiar, as the first voice had been.  But who...?

     [Master.]  The voices spoke together, and with them came an image.  His weapons room.  Two plinths side-by-side, where two very special weapons rested on red cushions, in a place of honor amid his formidable collection.  One, a blade.  The other, a pair of gauntlets.

     Flowing silently in a demon's hunting mode, he moved up the stairs, passing his room and going instead to the door hidden behind the beer fridge.  It swung aside to reveal another stairwell, this one leading down into darkness and silence.  He went down and entered the weapons chamber, hissing softly as the automatic lights rose to set every metal surface in the room -- there were a lot of them -- agleam.

     But the brightest glow still came from the two plinths.  Beyond them lay a third whose occupant sat quiescent, strapped down and plastered with controlling wards:  Nightmare Beta.  It had never spoken to him; he would never trust it.  But the other two had challenged him, acknowledged his mastery, proven their worth.  He smiled despite his dangerous mood as he drew close to the plinths, then reached out to caress first one and then the other.  Alastor's hilt, Ifrit's spikes.

     He felt their response immediately:  a surge of warmth up one arm, a buzzing tingle through the other. 

     [Master.  Let us]

     [help you.  Master]

     [we are yours.]

     [Master.]

     Dante smiled and felt elongated canines brush his lower lip.  "The only thing you can do, my friends, is help me kill all of my customers.  And as much fun as that would be, I don't really need your help for that."

     [Master, we]

     [will show you.]

     And the light flared. 

     Blue and red, crackling and blazing, both too bright to look upon for more than a second.  He hissed and turned away, his shoulderblades twitching; if he'd been in demon form he would have shielded himself with his wings.  But shields weren't necessary.  The light moved away from the plinths and settled on the floor, blazing in twin pillars to the ceiling for a moment, and then fading.  Blinking, Dante looked up and froze.

     Where the blue light had been stood a slim, elegantly-attired, pale youth a head shorter than Dante.  His hair was white, his eyes a peculiar metallic silver, like mercury -- or polished steel.  He smiled a sweet, deadly little smile, and for an instant the air crackled around him.

     In place of the red light was a tawny-skinned, brawny creature who would have been a head taller than Dante even if he hadn't been sitting crosslegged in midair.  He was barechested, his torso and arms covered in bold tattooed runes, and his hair was a flare of smoky black streaked with occasional hints of glowing red.  He grinned, and in that smile Dante caught a glimpse of a demonic lust to match his own.  This creature, he sensed, was always hungry for something.

     A shiver of instinctive excitement moved through Dante's body, and he felt his lips stretch in a slow smile.  "Well, well.  You boys've been holding out on me."

     "We have been more useful to you in our other forms until now, Master," said Alastor, bending his blade-straight body in a graceful bow.  "But perhaps, given your current... condition, you will find these forms more useful for the time being."

     Dante watched the white hair separate and fall around Alastor's neck as the thunder-demon bowed, and felt a sudden fierce desire to grip that hair, bite that slender neck --

     A hand, hot and heavy and strong as a dragon's, fell on his shoulder, forestalling him an instant before he would have crossed the room and fallen on Alastor in a frenzy.  "Don't be so hasty, Master," Ifrit whispered in his ear.  "Alastor and I have agreed to aid you."

     Dante groaned, his nerves singing at the prospect of a different kind of pleasure.  _Two at once? Oh yes oh yes I want --_

     He heard Ifrit's low chuckle dimly through the rushing of his blood.  "I'll take that as agreement.  Alastor?"

     Dante went still, fixing his eyes on the far wall, as deft fingers begin to unfasten his pants.  Stalking mode; his body was primed for the attack and yet he held back, waiting for the right moment.  Not yet.  Not until Alastor had anointed him properly.  He was not some low-class demon, to fumble and foul his prey in his haste to devour it after bringing it down.  No, the prey was his now, _his,_ and he would savor it.  And savor, too, the feel of a hunt-brother who had come to share the prey --

     "Share Alastor?"  Ifrit's voice was a low ripple in his ear, gusting hot breath against the nape of his neck.  Dante shivered, the sudden instinctive urge to _submit_ warring with the equal need to _dominate._   Was this what he thought it was?  "I think not, Master.  We are yours, and that also means... you are ours." 

     Powerful, tattooed arms wrapped around Dante from behind, taking hold of his leather vest and tearing it open.  Buttons scattered across the room but he barely noticed them, his mind freezing as warm moist softness suddenly enclosed his cock.  _FUCKHARDFAST_ was the only coherent thing his mind could handle in that moment; he threw back his head and snarled like a beast and strained to get his arms free so he could grip Alastor's head and slam bruises into that sweet little mouth.  But the hands that had torn open his shirt now held him firm -- or rather, one of them did.  That arm was wrapped around him, holding him tight against another body that was tall and straining with need and hot as a furnace and what was the other arm doing?  Alastor had tugged Dante's pants down over his hips; now strong fingers parted his buttocks and --

     Pain.  He howled again, his blood singing in his veins, his every instinct at war.  Submit?  Dominate?  The pain made the choice, pushing hard and fast into him and burning as it came, opening him _wide_ , oh God Vergil had never been this big, what the hell had Ifrit put in him, a red-hot baseball bat?  But then it began to fuck him, pump and pump and no foreplay, no waiting for him to adjust, just a rough savage claiming of its own pleasure and Dante could be damned. 

     Exactly what Dante needed. 

     He closed his eyes and reveled in the sound of his own whimpers, and in the sweeter sounds of Ifrit's throaty grunts and Alastor's slurping lips, the wet slap of his own blood lubricating the way while his ass was fucked almost numb.  The orgasm caught him by surprise.  He heard a high keening and saw white light and realized that both came from himself.  There was almost no pleasure in it; the pressure had grown too great for him to feel anything but desperate relief as the spasms passed.  But now Alastor was rising and turning before him, slim graceful body gleaming in the light as he undressed.  His quicksilver eyes gleamed too, tinged with a vestige of the same lust that afflicted Dante -- no, more than a vestige.  Much more.  Just controlled, like lightning trapped in wires and called electricity, like a deadly swift sword that would kill its owner if that person didn't have a firm hand.  As Alastor slipped off his tunic and tugged the silver diadem from his head, white hair tumbled down over his shoulders, brushing against pearlescent, soft, bare skin.

     _Needing a firm hand --_    Raw, abject hunger stirred in Dante again.  The orgasm had only taken its sharpest edge off, and his cock had never flagged once.

     "Exquisite, isn't he?"  Ifrit's voice, rough with arousal and the effort of thrusting -- the fire-demon seemed inclined to fuck him for an eternity.  "He won't let _me_ have him, you know.  Too good for me, he says."  A low breathless chuckle.  "He's right."

     As if in silent agreement, Alastor let drop the last of his clothing to reveal the body of a dancer, elfin and deceptive in its delicacy.  His penis was as slim and elegant as the rest of him.  Then Dante lost sight of it as Alastor turned, stepping over to the plinth where he had lain as a sword.  He bent forward over it, impossibly graceful in the ignominious position, and rested his belly and thighs against the thick pillow.  His perfect smooth ass presented itself, waiting.

     Dante growled, jerking hard against Ifrit's arms -- not trying to escape, for that would have driven any fullblooded demon into a frenzy of rage, but letting Ifrit know what he wanted.  Ifrit hissed back but slowed his thrusts to something approaching manageable, then finally stopped.  Then he tightened the arm around Dante's torso and picked him up bodily, holding him close so that their connection was not severed.  Like a child positioning action figures he carried Dante forward, set him down right behind Alastor, then pressed them close together.  Still slick from Alastor's mouth and his own seed, Dante's cock slithered along that soft ready cleft.  Dante bucked again, growling a demand, and this time Ifrit released his arms with a low chuckle.  He kept his grip around Dante's chest, however.  The prey wasn't devoured yet. 

     _Oh yes, I understand._

     Dante put his hands on Alastor's back, caressing the thunder-demon's flanks and down to his hips.  It was like playing an instrument; Alastor shivered and sighed in three tones, lifting his hips a little higher.  The nearest such a proud creature would ever come to a blatant plea.

     _No need to beg,_ Dante thought giddily, and rammed himself to the hilt into Alastor's magnificently tight ass.

     Alastor cried out, arching and pressing back against him.  In the same moment Ifrit ran out of patience and thrust forward again, and Dante froze for several seconds in the incomprehensible bliss of fucking and being fucked at once.  Dimly, as the moment passed, he realized that he'd come a second time.  But his vision cleared and Alastor was making frustrated sounds and contortions before him, struggling in a most undignified way to get Dante's cock to _move,_ and Ifrit was bending him forward for a better angle.  The fire-demon was moving slowly, however, setting up a rhythm... yes.  Dante grinned over his prey, took hold of Alastor's hips, and began to thrust.  Instinct modulated his rhythm, keeping his timing perfect so that there would be no interruption of the pleasure for any of them.  His hunger accepted the necessary compromise -- savagery from behind, tenderness to the fore -- because it was greedy and after all, two fucks were better than one.

     "Oh _hell_ yeah..." he whispered aloud, and both of his demons growled in assent.

     And then it was just fucking, sweet fucking.  Slamming and slapping and grunting from Ifrit; rocking and clenching and soft pleading sounds from Alastor.  Vergil had been this good, Dante thought in the tiny part of his brain still functional.  Vergil had always known what Dante needed, whether it was gentleness or cruelty, a skillful tongue or a well-lubed fist.  But Vergil was gone and since then Dante had been settling for less, enough to ease his needs but never enough to truly satisfy him.  Now, at last -- he reached back and caressed Ifrit's wild hair, reached forward and thrust two fingers into Alastor's perfect little mouth -- he was getting everything he wanted.  Not Vergil, but enough.  Because his Devil Arms loved him too in their own dark way, and though they could never replace his brother, neither would they leave him alone.

     _Enough with the thinking,_ his demon half snarled at the rest of him.  _Attend to business._

     _What he said,_ growled his human half, and Dante laughed out loud.  The laugh turned to a gasp as Ifrit growled and sank his teeth up to the gums into Dante's right shoulder.  That hurt like hell but Ifrit's cock was heaven inside him, still big as God -- bigger, maybe -- and every thick heavy inch of it was rolling back and forth over his prostate like the fingers of a Swedish masseur.  Better still was the way Ifrit was groaning around his mouthful of Dante's flesh; the fire-demon's cries had grown urgent, his thrusts quick and strained.  That pleasure was matched only by the sight of Alastor writhing like a mad thing before him, clutching the plinth in an effort to brace himself and push back against Dante, one hand out of sight and pumping frantically in front of him.

     _Mine,_ Dante thought, and it was true.  He controlled them both now.  He was the one setting the pace, his rhythm keeping them together; they were both half sane and on the brink because _he_ had them there, and kept them there, tormenting them just because he could.  It was a glorious feeling, heady as wine, thrilling as battle, satisfying as the splatter of blood.  He could ride this feeling, ride _them_ , forever...

     No.  Not forever.  Because the pressure was rising again, pounding through his veins, screaming in his mind, and _goddamn_ Alastor was tight, quivering around him like an electric current even as Ifrit burned deep inside him.  And it was bad now -- so bad that he was slamming hard into Alastor, panting and weeping as Ifrit slammed into _him_ , his every nerve and muscle taut, his half-demon soul singing.  So bad... so bad... _oh shit oh fuck I'm going to come **RIGHT GODDAMN NOW** \--_

     Three demonic voices rose in a roar that shook the room, and two floors above the patrons of Devil Never Cry thought _they_ rocked the house.

#

     Most mornings Dante woke in the chair of his office, usually with a splitting hangover.  Thus his surprise when he woke in bed with a split ass instead.  Or so it felt, though when he reached back to examine himself he found that he was already halfway healed.  _Gotta love Dad's genes.  So handy for rough sex._

     He sat up, ignoring the brief flare of pain from his half-healed shoulder as well, and got to his feet.  His clothes were on the overturned chair in the corner.  Naked, he padded through the disaster area that was his room, through the beer fridge, and down into the weapons room.

     The plinths stood as before, his Devil Arms in their true forms and quiescent upon their places of honor.  He stopped between them, feeling a moment's regret.  Then he sighed.

     "Sleep well, my friends," he murmured, reaching out to touch vibrant metal and hot leather.  "Thank you."

     He got no response, but he expected none.  They needed their rest, after all, in between battles.

     He turned to head back upstairs.  The bartender had probably kicked out the last of the patrons at dawn, but cleanup wasn't in the man's contract.  Not that Dante bothered to do much either -- just enough to keep the health authorities at bay -- but Devil Never Cry paid for his weapons, his bike, and his leather, so he had to put at least a little effort into maintaining his livelihood.

     But he paused at the threshold of the weapons room, glancing back to grin at the two plinths.

     "Next time you guys want a polish, just ask, okay?"

     Ifrit's burnished glow brightened for just an instant; a faint crackle flickered down the length of Alastor.  Whistling jauntily -- demonic afterglow lasted for hours -- he closed the door and headed upstairs.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written years ago, maybe early Noughties. It was originally posted on some gaming slash lists, so if it looks familiar, congratulations! You have a great memory. I think this might be my first DMC fanfic, but I can't remember. Not my best work, alas.


End file.
